Arthur Upfield - Battling Prophet

“You must find that most gratifying,” dryly remarked Mr. Weston, and the undertone was not unnoticed by Bonaparte.

“I must not fail, and that is not gratification of vanity. You may fail and try again. Another’s failure will be accepted without comment, and little effect on his career. To yet another, failure will have no adverse effect on his mind or his career, for he will take it as temporary. But I must not fail, ever.”

Mr. Weston was not unintelligent.

“Tell me more,” he urged, “of your career.”

“That Mission Station matron began it,” Bony went on. “She gave me all her affection and, too, she gained mine. She began my training before I could crawl, began the building of this misnamed man of two races. She inculcated in me beliefs and ambitions which were to become the driving forces of my life; and with these forces I have had to contend against prenatal influences inherited from my aboriginal mother. She instilled into my mind the ability to see and evaluate my own limitations, and enough wisdom to detour, as it were. She taught me to fear nothing of the living, to fear no one other than myself. She didn’t think of it, I suppose, because she didn’t teach me not to fear the dead.”

“And you really feel yourself omnipotent to-er-finalise your present investigation?”

Mr. Weston found himself drawn to meet the blue eyes of the man who turned slowly to look at him. It was then that Mr. Weston realised that his ideas of half-castes were somehow just so much tosh. It was then that he first realised that the circumstances of a man’s birth are no obstacle, save to the snob. He heard a voice which seemed to have no association with the mind beyond those extraordinary eyes.

“My present investigation, Padre?”

“Well, er… I thought… I thought you might have credited old Luton’s crazy theories with a modicum of truth. There could be a basis of truth in them, don’t you think?”

“What do you think, Padre?”

Mr. Weston felt like a small boy caught out in some deceit. Abruptly, he regretted having been so superior, of having thought of himself as being a pinnacle high above a half-caste. He was angry now, because he suspected he had been subtly encouraged to tumble into a trap. He had to answer that question; and truthfully.

“I think there might be something in what the old boy says.”

“Mr. Luton has had a wide experience of delirium tremens,” reminded Bony.“Proof of his assertion that each type of spirituous liquor will produce its distinctive demons, is, however, not forthcoming. Were you referring to Mr. Luton’s assertion that Ben Wickham did not die of alcoholic poisoning?”

“If we admit that Mr. Luton is right on the first, then he could be right on his second claim,” allowed Mr. Weston, mopping his forehead with a red silk handkerchief, and obviously relieved that Bony was gazing outward over the river.

“There are, I understand, many people made happy by his death.”

“That is so, Inspector Bonaparte.”

“Do you think that among them are those living locally?”

“I could admit only to the possibility.”

“When did you first come to think there could be something in Mr. Luton’s theories?”

Mr. Weston hesitated.

“It was some time after Ben’s body had been cremated. I am sure of that.”

Bony said suavely: “Should I begin an investigation relative to the death of Ben Wickham, be sure that I shall continue until I prove to myself, at least, that he was murdered or that he was not murdered. Meanwhile, I am enjoying my stay with my old friend.”

“Of course! Of course! Then am I to understand that you are not investigating the circumstances surrounding the demise of my late friend?”

“You are to understand precisely what appeals to you most.”

“Ah! You do right to chide me, Inspector. Pray accept my questioning as from an interested party. Perhaps Mr. Luton has told you of my position in the house up yonder. I have for long years been very close to both poor Ben Wickham and his sister, Mrs. Parsloe.”

“He did mention you,” Bony replied with a chuckle. “He told me of your concern for his health after I had informed him how you had caught a fish from under my own hook. It was then I told him I would balance the scales. Acknowledge that I have now. The secret? I’ll give it to you. Witchetty grubs are first-class bait. You’ll find them if you split firewood.”

Mr. Weston stood with Bony and smiled. Gone was the unease, and healed were the wounds to his vanity, for he was now in the presence of a merely ordinary man, and a likeable one. It was long after he left Bony on the river-bank that he remembered being led into a trap, and suffered a sneaking fear that he was to be lured into another.

Bony watched his tall and angular figure trudging along the track to the main road, and when the parson had disappeared he sat again on the tree-trunk and again rolled a cigarette. Casually he said twice, the second time loudly:

“The enemy has retreated. You may come out, Mr. Harris.”

Knocker Harris emerged from the hollow log to rise stiffly to his feet, and with a thankful sigh to sit beside the fisherman.

“Beaut, ain’the?” he said, nodding at the kingfish.“Nearer fourteen than thirteen pounds.”

“Why were you holed up under my favourite seat?”

“Well, it’s like so,” defended Knocker. “I’m on me way to visit John and you, see? I’mdrawin ’ nigh when Isees the Reverencecastin ’ down-river a bit, like. I sees I can’t side-step without him seeing me if he looks my way. So Iacts theabo. When he does look up-river, I’m a fence-post. When he looks somewhere else, Imoves forward to this log. Only cover for me is inside, like. Then his reverence comes along right beside here, and I know he’s here ’costhe dogs barked.”

“They didn’t bark when you came?”

“No, of course not.”Mr. Harris chuckled while splitting open a cigarette for the tobacco, which he tossed into his mouth.“Got no time for him, Inspector. Nasty bit of work. What’s the use of parsons, I’d like to know? Only bludging on the people. Never doesno work. Parishes, Icalls ’em. Always sticking their dirty noses into other people’sbis’ness, like. Gonna put me and old John into a home, says he. What a ruddy hope! Heget any change outer you?”

“You heard what we said,” Bony said, coldly.

“That I didn’t. Wished I could of. The hole into the log’s a bit small, like, and it was sort of blocked with me feet. How did you know I was in there?”

“I could smell you.”

The Recall

“FUNNYhow the Reverend sort of got to like this part of the river lately,” remarked Knocker Harris. “You know, before Benkonked out, me and John had some peace, like. But not since.”

“Mr. Weston doesn’t often fish here?” prompted Bony.

“No. First time he came here fishing was the other afternoon. Come to pump you, like. Ain’t to be trustedfurther’n you could belt with one hand. Landed over at the house one time when Ben and John was coming out of the hoo-jahs, and what he said to them you’d never read about. And them that crook their eyeswas fixed like marbles in a bottle, like.”

“They were, doubtless, rather ill.”

“Ill! You wouldn’t know ’em. Corpses they was, livin ’ corpses. See thatkingy’s eyes? They had eyes like that when theywassoberin ’, like. Dammit, they had mouths like that, too. Sort ofsaggin ’ open. I’d better gut this fish for John.”

Knocker Harris slid forward to kneel beside the fish and proceeded to scale it and remove its innards on to a sheet of bark, as he said, to give to the chooks. He was obeying still the commands of his mother and father- “Waste not, want not”.